


oh say can you see or of blindfolds and snark

by dictionarysays



Category: SMAP
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-02
Updated: 2013-03-02
Packaged: 2017-12-04 01:26:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/704903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dictionarysays/pseuds/dictionarysays
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If bad choices had faces they’d look a little something like the one in front of him, eyebrows furrowed underneath damp pieces of hair and a mouth that takes the literal shape of what the fuck is going on here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	oh say can you see or of blindfolds and snark

Nakai swears he can hear his stomach drop to the ground with a definitive _plop_ as he realizes all over again how stupid this idea is.  
   
The door swings open to a mostly wet and half naked band mate. He gets that it’s one in the morning and that most rational men in their thirties don’t show up at other rational men in their thirties’ doors, but tonight, _today_ is different.  
   
Nakai’s running off impulse and terrible decision-making and staring it straight in the face.  
   
He figures if bad choices had faces they’d look a little something like the one in front of him, eyebrows furrowed underneath damp pieces of hair and a mouth that takes the literal shape of _what the fuck is going on here_.   
   
The keys are still in the ignition and the headlights are hot on the back of his knees.  
   
He looks down at his scuffed sneakers for a second, scraping the will to speak from the walls of his throat.  
   
He coughs, “Uhh, I know it’s late but,” his throat starts to tighten up at what he knows is coming next and the expectancy taut in Kimura’s shoulders. “Is... is what you said on What’s true?”  
   
“I say a lot of things.” A Sarcastic Retort dies a horrible death on Nakai’s tongue, but not without some self-restraint first. He wants to hate the deadpan way he said that, but he also knows he’s the crazy man standing at Kimura’s door. Not the other way around.  
   
“Touché, yeah, but yesterday you talked about... _blindfolds_... and—”  
   
“And what? You got curious? _Bull._ ” In one smooth move, Kimura’s over the threshold and somewhere really close to Nakai’s personal bubble.  
   
He means to step back, he does, but instead his hands fist into his shorts and his chest burns where Kimura points at it. Nakai does _not_ take notice of the determined glint brimming beneath the other’s man lashes or the naked feet so close to his own.  
   
“What’re you _really_ here for?”  
   
Nothing would make Nakai happier than being able to answer that.  
   
“Cup of sugar?” So he does. Badly.  
   
One of Kimura’s eyebrows quirk and despite the laughter tugging at the half naked man’s lips, Nakai can still feel the accusation emanating off his band mate in waves. A dog barks from far away.  
   
“Come on, the dogs are asleep.” Nakai catches the shake of his head, then he’s being led inside. Not only should he not be going into a house that isn’t his at nearly two in the morning, but he especially shouldn’t be currently toeing off his shoes in the doorway of a house owned by the man whose fault it is in the first place that he’s even come here. He knows he can’t say this out loud, though—he’s getting too old for fist fights that involve shirtless men.  
   
Nakai asks, “How is... how are they anyway?”  
   
He follows after Kimura’s back, ignoring the muscles under his tanned skin.  
   
“The dogs? They’re good.” His voice is gravelly with subdued laughter. He shoots Nakai a look over his shoulder that says _you forgot their names again_ , but his cheeks are tight with giggles so the oldest smiles a little bit.  
   
For some weird reason, Nakai’s insides don’t flip at the mess beginning in the other man’s living room; overturned ashtrays and two bowls are spilled across the low table, the used bath towel on the couch suggests some things. It feels lived in and familiar, even though Nakai knows close to nothing about his band mate’s home and the dog fur that’s probably waiting to be vacuumed and the thin haze of old cigarette smoke.  
   
He’s trying to stop himself from picking up the red socks at his feet—Kimura tells him to wait so Nakai simply stands, reaching up to fidget with the cap on his head instead. He needs a plan fast.  
   
This is making less and less sense the longer he stays in Kimura’s vicinity, and really, what did he think he’d accomplish, anyway? So what if his gut clenched when Kimura spontaneously admitted to liking blindfolds? If anything, he should be _humiliated_ by the burn that spread across his cheeks as he strained to listen to the way his band mate confessed even more in static bursts through the rush of highway traffic that passed him on his way home (he preferred blinding than being blinded).  
   
The way his heart slows at the reminder of last night is still a problem though. He’s not proud of himself.  
   
There’s footsteps and suddenly heat behind him. His chest starts to close in on him.  
   
“This what you were looking for?” A dark material passes over Nakai’s eyes, he starts to move; whether it’s to scream, struggle or even dance, he isn’t sure; but then a big arm catches him around the waist. He feels a knot being tied around the back of his head, his cap falls off too.  
   
“Stay.” Kimura’s voice is lower than before.  
   
It’s funny, Nakai feels like another one of his dogs and all that’s missing is a _good boy_ and a dog treat.  
   
He blinks, flustered, but it stays dark, mottled shades of black all he can see.  
   
Kimura watches Nakai’s mouth move, he’s not sure if it’s out of irritation, but nothing more than that shows.  
   
Most people aren’t prepared for situations like this. Early mornings where they show up at band mate’s doors, delusional and not drunk and are suddenly blindfolded by one of the sexiest men in Japan—not Nakai’s opinion. He sniffs, the makeshift blindfold smells faintly feminine and he hopes to god it isn’t previous girlfriend underwear.  
   
“This is starting to look a lot like kidnapping, you know.” The sarcasm helps him avoid thinking about the hot pads of skin he can’t see (but he can _feel_ ) now fingering his 30ish year old stomach-that-doesn’t-like-abs under his I’m-not-properly-dressed-for-this-shit shirt.  
   
“You started it.” Nakai doesn’t need eyes to feel the smirk that grazes the loop of his ear. The cartilage tingles.  
   
His gut starts to roll like it used to when public speaking was the most terrifying thing on earth. He’s the oldest here—but not by enough, which is why he can’t stop Kimura as he pushes his free hand into one of Nakai`s pockets and pulls him backwards without warning.  
   
He falls back onto something sort of soft, his limbs strewn about. It feels like the couch; a really weird place in his chest thumps hard in vivid response to the last time he was on it like this. But Nakai shakes his head, there’s no time for the flickering past when the present is working so hard to keep him here.  
   
Kimura’s squished against his front, one arm hooked around Nakai’s neck, the other fiddling between them.  
   
“I’m only consenting because I don’t want to break up SMAP.” Nakai says, tongue heavy. His ears pick up the telltale hitch in Kimura’s throat quicker than usual before he laughs loud and all over the side of Nakai’s face.  
   
“Yeah? Real leader of you.”  
   
Nakai has a feeling the blindfold is a little more than redundant at this point. He has no trouble imagining the amused delight bursting in his band mate’s eyes, lips probably pulled back in a grin made up of glee to reveal stupid squirrel teeth.  
   
Kimura shifts and then his mouth is on Nakai’s, kissing him slowly, squirrel teeth gnawing on his lower lip.  
   
Nakai thinks it’s a combination of the long time ago past and the blindfold that makes him kiss back, chapped lips replying to the damp sweat on the small of Kimura’s back he feels when Nakai moves to clutch at something better than sanity. Smooth bones move under the bigger man’s silk skin; the sticky pop of their lips as they kiss and a car horn that sounds like it could be miles away echoes in Nakai’s ears. He’s already given up on wanting to see again and he thinks that’s why his hips are up and off the couch now, trying to start a fire with Kimura’s.  
   
He could make a terrible metaphor insinuating lame things between them like the match that was struck the minute Kimura opened his door or the blaze starting in on his hands that’s moving slowly into his legs or he could just freeze when Kimura pulls away from the kiss that had quickly become an eating contest with a frighteningly obvious slurp- _huff_.  
   
Kimura starts sliding his warm hands under Nakai’s shirt. The inside of his gut feels like a giant squid and he holds back the tiny noise he nearly makes but he can’t stop how his thighs clench and Kimura’s stupid knees are in the way and then his shirt is off. His shirt really needs to stay on. He hasn’t done a sit-up in weeks.  
   
“What do you say to taking a break? It’s late, you’re probably tired—”  
   
“You asked for it, dipshit.” Something about the way the words slink out and wind themselves around Nakai freaks him out.  
   
He sucks in through his nose and immediately regrets it. Pieces of almost-dry hair flutter over his nipples and all he can smell is mint and sea; anybody else and he’d ask what kind of shampoo, but Nakai knows the man now trailing a fingernail across his bellybutton doesn’t need that kind of shampoo.  
   
The couch turns hard behind Nakai’s naked back when the tongue burning a path down his chest, circles the dip between his hip and his jeans, and then Kimura’s biting at his zipper. He can hear the metallic clink of teeth and then they’re unbuttoned and unzipped before his face can turn completely red.  
   
“What the hell do _you_ do in your free time?” is what Nakai wants to ask, but what he really says is “... _fuck_.” instead.  
   
“ _Shut up_.” Nakai mumbles. Kimura’s cheeky grin burns through his jeans.  
   
If they were ten years younger, Nakai would just call him a whore and settle it with that, but they’re not and even if his band mate _was_ a whore on the side; it wouldn’t make him any better because he’s the one fisting his hand into one of the spaces in the couch as aforementioned probably-a-whore grabs hold of his erection through cotton seams.  
   
“I didn’t say a word,” Nakai can still hear his grin, now more like an _I know you know_ upturn of his lips as he tugs on Nakai, pulling at his erection with some dirty grace Nakai can’t even begin to fathom. He’s too busy grinding the back of his teeth, eyes shutting tight; a balloon expanding in place of where his heart should be.  
   
His ears are pounding and the heat from his cheeks is having a trickledown effect on his neck. He squirms briefly, mouth falling into an _o_. Kimura tickles the underside of his penis the same way he had before, years ago. The only difference now is that Nakai is using every ounce of restraint he has left to stifle the things that want to come out of his mouth.  
   
He huffs out of his nose, cooling the sweat gathering over his lips.  
   
Before Nakai can say no, his right hand is being pulled out of the couch and his band mate is pressing it against too warm skin. It isn’t Nakai’s own.  
   
“You can touch me too,” he doesn’t know if he should figure out what he’s touching or if he should seriously contemplate the husked tones in Kimura’s words.  
   
He decides rather quickly that figuring out if his hands are being forced around an arm or a leg is a safer move.  
   
The cloth covering Nakai’s eyes itches, but he’s partially pinned to naked skin and sheepishly sculpting the curves of the other man’s shoulders. They’re big and strong and he’s not a girl but he’s always envied his band mate’s arms. When Kimura wriggles closer, nudging at the hem of his jeans, shoving them away with his nose, Nakai is gulping, slipping his hand lower, and feeling bunched skin.  
   
A few minutes later, he’s in nothing but half-off underwear and a blindfold, staring up into black, right hand fisted into clumps of long hair. His penis is in Kimura’s mouth.  
   
It hits him there, among the tension pooling in his groin and the dizzying black in front of his eyes, that he now knows why he’s wanted to do this for so long. There’s nothing but the sound of his band mate’s slippery tongue and sticky mouth in stereo and the focussed sensations of the textured pillow under his butt and the slick heat swallowing him whole and the heavy pressure of the blindfold over his eyes and the realization that he could stay in this dark bubble forever if it meant Kimura would keep doing that thing with his _oh, s-shit—your teeth._  
   
That wasn’t any good either though, because it was getting to be too much and Nakai was scraping at his band mate’s scalp and panting and twisting his ankles behind Kimura’s knees. Squirrel teeth push him over the edge, something he’ll force into the far reaches of his brain when it’s over, but right now there’s a blinding light pushing past the back of his eyes and he’s cursing between things like I hate you and god.  
   
His hips fly up so hard he swears he can hear Kimura choke. He’s wheezing too loud to be sure.

 


End file.
